Christmas Special

Given that it's Christmas, here's a genuine (in that it actually happened) memory of my own from Christmas a few years ago. I don't have many interesting stories, hence the need to make them up, and this one isn't particularly groundbreaking, but it's mine, and it's Christmas, so there it is.

Speaking of Christmas, now's probably as good a time as ever to say thank you to everyone and anyone who has been reading this blog (I won't say it for another year, so make the most of it). It's been a fun start, and I'm enjoying the challenge of writing a story a day. Except today of course, where I've kinda taken the easy option. But like I said, it's Christmas. Anyway, keep coming back and let me know if there are any that catch your eye. And have a Merry Fucking Christmas yourself.

I was six in '92 and all I wanted for Christmas was a Sega Mega Drive. I made this abundantly clear to my dad, who liked to refer to it as an SMD or "Smelly Metal Donkey" (he fancied himself a bit of a joker). In the weeks leading up to Christmas the two of us developed a bed time ritual whereby he would ask me what I wanted for Christmas and I would reply, "A Sega Mega Drive!".
Him: "An SMD?"
Me: "Yeah!"
Him: "A Smelly Metal Donkey?"
Me: "Yeah!"
I was six and thought this was a fun little joke that my dad and I shared. I thought we were bonding. I felt that he was taking an active role as a parent in making his son feel good and supported in his hobbies and interests. I can't even remember why I wanted a Mega Drive so much, other than that they were, and still are, fucking awesome.

On Christmas Eve the tradition in my family was that we'd take the wrapped presents from my parents' room and put them under the Christmas tree (one of the reasons, as well as a naturally sceptical mind, why I never really remember actually believing in Santa). Amid the hoard of goodies was a giant (to a six year old) box on which were written the words, "IS THIS THE SMD?!" Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink that night.

The next morning, Christmas Day, I rushed downstairs cos I knew that I'd be allowed to open one present before we all went to church. I instantly grabbed the giant box and tore the wrapping off it. Underneath the wrapping was a cardboard box which I also pretty much ripped apart. Inside was a hell of a lot of polystyrene packaging which I threw aside as I dived into what I expected would be Sega fuelled goodness. Instead I found, right at the bottom, a small plastic donkey which had been drenched in my dad's cheap aftershave. I've never cried so hard in my life. My whole world had collapsed. All my dreams and expectations, cruelly nurtured by my dad, had been exposed as lies and cheap distractions.

It was only then that a guilty dad was ordered upstairs by my mum to bring down a present which I was told to open despite my tantrum, and there, in all its glory, was my shiny new Sega Mega Drive with its copy of Sonic the Hedgehog. Joke was on my dad as he didn't see me for the rest of Christmas. In retrospect, I was a fucking brat of a child, and probably would've taken away a more accurate life view if my dad had stuck to his guns. I don't begrudge him that, though.

P.S. One of the other presents my dad got me that year ('92, remember, when I was six) was the VHS of Terminator 2: Judgment Day. I loved it, and watched it obsessively, but even so, that was a brave move by any parent. It's only in the years after that you truly appreciate your parents for who they are.